
The way
home
In the eighties, Lavapiés, an old quarter of tenement courtyards and sloping streets, filled with young people who arrived with little money and boundless enthusiasm: musicians, painters, punks. Heading down into the neighbourhood at first light was the last scene of the night and the first of the day. The Lavapiés wears the periwinkle of the blue hour and, on its small seconds, the warm grey of the afternoon it all began











